Then I realised they weren’t talking about perennially plaid-shirted American guitar-strangler Neil Young – whose long-term nickname Shakey was coined by friends less than impressed with his wobbly way with a home movie camera – but the Poundstretcher Elvis from Penarth.

Sigh.

Oh well, at least Young fans can see him rocking out in all his ragged glory at the Hop Farm festival in Kent next month, while those of you who are Glasto-bound will just have to make the best of things.

Who knows? Maybe Shaky – that’s Shaky without the ‘e’ by the way, as he’s keen to stress in almost every interview he does – will turn in a career-redefining performance like Dame Burly Chassis did last year.

Or maybe it’ll be more like the big bowl of wrong Tom Jones served up at the Concert For Diana when he wheezed hard, eyes bulging from the strain, through the wordy gallop that is the Arctic Monkeys’ I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor.

That was like having your nan and grandad turn up at your door in matching Kappa shell suits and Argos rolled gold bling. No, no, no, no, no.

Worse still, Shaky could phone in the same turn he gave while recently playing a gig in a Bavarian family’s living room.

Yes, that’s right. A Bavarian family’s living room. It’s on YouTube if you don’t believe me.

I’ve no idea why he’s there – I don’t sprechen sie deutsch, apart from, er, saying sprechen sie deutsch that is – but the sizeable gaggle of lederhosen-wearing locals who’ve turned up to hear Oh Julie for the gazillionth time seem very happy to see him.

Then again it looks like the sort of town where, apart from a visit to the glockenspiel museum at a weekend, entertainment is at somewhat of a premium. I imagine were it not Shaky turning up in his black chauffeur-driven Audi they’d have just as readily lined the streets to cheer on one of the local cows that had got out and wandered down the strasse.

Although Shaky, it must be said, looks less than enamoured to be there, wedged in between the odd, bulky, doily-covered furniture of his ecstatic Fritzel-alike host, fearing perhaps he’ll be rushed any second and imprisoned inside one of the suspiciously capacious mahogany wardrobes lurking behind him.

Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t take off his scarf or Barber jacket during the whole thing – to necessitate a quick getaway.

Maybe he should top that outfit off with a hard hat and some galoshes come Saturday morning when the hordes of festival-goers take exception to having their collective hangovers poked and prodded by a 60-year-old from Cardiff singing Yakety Yak and the bottles of wee-wee start flying stage-ward.

Awesomely weird...

AWESOME is an overused word isn’t it?

At least it is in America.

Me and the redhead have just come back from there ourselves and no sooner had we taken off from Bristol airport for New York than some Yank was asking the person next to him if they minded switching seats so he could be nearer the aisle, “because that would be awesome”. No, it wouldn’t. It would simply be slightly more convenient for the toilets.

And go in any store out there and you’re immediately jumped by some beaming idiot employee.

“Hi, and how are you today? Awesome!” they gush, barely waiting for you to actually respond. “And how would you like to pay? By credit card? That’s awesome!”

No, it’s not. Any fool can get a bleedin’ credit card. Filling out a form isn’t beyond the limit of my capabilities you know!

Ahh, ignore me readers. I’m just annoyed about what happened when I went into a branch of Abercrombie & Fitch during my stay – you know, the clothes store for preppy, bright young things.

And, before you ask smarty pants, I was looking for a present for my younger sister.

Anyway, the redhead sniffed a perfume she liked and went to pay for it, leaving me to loiter toward the back of the shop, head in hand and leaning against one of the clothes rails – the classic pose adopted by bored and hungry shopped-out boyfriends the world over.

Suddenly I caught a glimpse of the female staff, all very attractive young ladies in thigh- skimming denim cut-offs and skimpy white vests, staring in my direction and whispering behind their hands.

“Probably never seen an example of fine Welsh manhood before,” I thought to myself, and continued to daydream of burgers and a good sit-down.

Then one walked by, slipped me a glance, grabbed her pal and went off round the corner to whisper some more.

“Calm down girls, this is getting embarrassing,” I murmured, just as her pal returned to smile at me coyly.